The Suffering of the Poet

“A poet is an unhappy being whose heart is torn by secret sufferings, but whose lips are so strangely formed that when the sighs and the cries escape them, they sound like beautiful music… and then people crowd about the poet and say to him: “Sing for us soon again;” that is as much as to say, “May new sufferings torment your soul.” – Soren Kierkegaard

Poetry is written when the strength of the heart and soul gives out; it is a truth that is revealed through one’s suffering and our pain and wonder becomes to overwhelming to bear. The poem mirrors one’s state of uncertainty and confusion within this absurd world that we cannot comprehend nor trust. So must all poets suffer? Must we all subvert into an utter state of depression and misery where our poems are only unearthed through our constant state of unhappiness and insecurity about this business of living? I have been battling with this notion for year: Was I destined to these inevitably harsh circumstances that so many poets and writers seem to exude, and live, through his or her work?

My attempts to improve in my social graces have always failed me; it seems as if I was never meant to congregate with other people as I am extremely awkward and always seem to become quickly irritated. This is not to say that I do not wish to be a social person. In fact, I often long for that companionship, whether trivial or not, where I would have to deal with petty fights and deal with the stress of maintaining friendships. However, apart of me always seems to dismiss this idea of friendship; it is as if companionship is a foreign relation for me that doesn’t want to squeeze its way into my life. Is this selfish and depressive or is it proof that I am a true poet who will forever be condemned to a torturous life of isolation and philosophical contemplation where my soul is forever confined within the depths of my being? Is it is this area where my poetry lives whether it be joyous or not? Perhaps… actually, I believe it all dwells in that secret place that even I am unaware of. I am indecisive as to whether I am ok with suffering for my poetry- it is difficult to feel as if you are utterly mad the majority of the time- but I am prepared to allow the pen to take me where I need to be in that moment; I welcome the suffering if it means coming to an inner truth where my words finally lose their purpose.